


Concussion

by messageredacted



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-14
Updated: 2012-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-29 13:17:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messageredacted/pseuds/messageredacted
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kinkmeme Prompt: <i>sherlock gets knocked out in a fight and john is up against a bunch of bad guys all by himself, but he kicks all their asses to protect sherlock, then he gets him home and tends to his wounds</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Concussion

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written on 17 August 2010.

Sherlock’s head hit the ground with enough force to send stars shocking behind his eyes, and there was a brief moment where everything went away—the warehouse, the scuffle around him, the sound of fists on flesh, John’s harsh breathing, all shrouded behind a dark black curtain. It came back in a nauseating rush and Sherlock’s body curled up involuntarily against the pain. Concussion, definitely. Hopefully nothing fractured.

A foot collided with his shin, but from the angle and lack of direct force Sherlock could tell it wasn’t meant for him, just a stray kick from the fight still raging over him. He rolled onto his knees and tried to sit up but that made the nausea come back and he barely held on to the contents of his stomach.

Someone let out a grunt and then a body crashed into the wall next to Sherlock. “Sherlock, you alright?” John gasped out somewhere nearby. Sherlock opened his mouth to respond that he was _fine_ , thank you, but his stomach rebelled and this time he did vomit, a splatter of stomach bile onto the floor.

John cursed and then there was the impact of flesh on flesh and the scuffle renewed.

“One down,” one of the men said with a hoarse laugh.

John’s only answer was a snarl and then there came the definite sound of a joint popping out of its socket. The man let out a howl of pain, but John didn’t let up. Sherlock rolled onto his side, away from the vomit, and squinted up at the fight, even though the movement made his brain feel like it was sloshing in his skull.

The two remaining men were taking on John at once, but John seemed to be holding his own against them. The third man was on his knees, clutching a dislocated shoulder. The fourth was on the floor where he had fallen next to Sherlock, unconscious or dead.

“Just give me—minute—” Sherlock mumbled, his words slurring. He felt detached curiosity at his inability to enunciate the words. The concussion was worse than he’d thought, then.

“You stay right where you are,” John snapped immediately. He ducked a punch and drilled his fist into the man’s gut, then kneed him in the face when the man doubled over. The other man wrapped an arm around John’s neck and yanked him over backwards, trying to throttle him. John’s face purpled and his arms flailed, but then he grabbed the man’s fingers and twisted, snapping one. The man let go and John downed him with another blow to the face.

“That’s not…military… training,” Sherlock gasped.

“I’ve seen my fair share of action,” John said, bending over and gasping for breath. “Pub brawls, mostly.” He gave a self deprecating grin.

Sherlock snorted and then followed that with a groan. Pain stabbed unpleasantly into his sinuses. John’s expression immediately turned sober and he hurried over.

“Your nose isn’t broken,” he said, reaching out to carefully probe Sherlock’s face. Sherlock winced back but John’s touch was feather light. “Not so happy about this, though. Can you stand?”

Sherlock considered the question seriously before trying to get his feet under himself. John held his arm and helped him stagger to his feet, catching him when his knees buckled. They both stumbled forward a step before Sherlock regained his balance.

“Let’s get you checked out,” John said.

“I don’t need the hospital.”

“You could have a concussion.”

“I live with a doctor. I’ll be fine.”

John huffed a laugh. “Is he any good?”

“He’s good to have around in a fight.”

They made it out the door to the warehouse before Sherlock had to stop again, retching. John’s lips were tight with worry but he said nothing.

“Call a cab,” Sherlock said when he had got himself under control again. John nodded and reached into Sherlock’s jacket pocket, pulling out the phone. The cab company was one of the few numbers programmed into the phone.

Sherlock sat down on the ground while John made the call. It was a ten minute wait before the cab came down the deserted street, headlights picking out trash in the gutter.

“Up you go,” John murmured, tugging on Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock managed to get up, although his limbs were frustratingly unresponsive to his control. If it weren’t for John at his elbow, he wouldn’t have been able to make it into the cab at all.

John called Lestrade while they drove and gave him the details on the case. Sherlock tipped his head back against the seat and breathed in and out through his nose, trying not to give in to the nausea again. There was a dull pounding behind his eyes.

They arrived at Baker Street a few minutes later and John helped Sherlock up the stairs and to the sofa. “Wait here. I’ll be right back,” John said, leaving Sherlock to loll back against the cushions. Sherlock had no intention of moving any further. He let his eyes sink shut.

John returned after a moment with a torch. Sherlock groaned.

“No, I need you to open your eyes. I want to see your pupils,” John said. “One condition of coming home is that you have to _listen to me._ ”

Sherlock peeled his eyes open and squinted into the light as John tested the dilation of his pupils. “I don’t remember that being a condition,” he murmured.

“How are you feeling?”

“Pretty much as you would expect.”

“Can you remember what happened?”

“I—” Sherlock paused. “Hit the ground.”

John waited, raising his eyebrows. “And before that?”

“Memory loss around the event is one of the most common symptoms of concussion, John. It doesn’t require hospitalization.”

“And can you tell me where you are?”

Sherlock gave him the most withering look he could muster. “Two two one B Baker Street. You’re favoring your left knee.”

“Good.” John put the light away and looked down. “Looks like your brain is functioning well enough. I just twisted it. It’s fine.”

“Put some ice on it.”

“I’m the doctor.” But John went into the kitchen anyway and returned with two bags of ice wrapped in towels. He handed one to Sherlock and then sat down on the end of the couch next to him, resting the other on his knee. “That was a fight, wasn’t it?”

Sherlock closed his eyes against the ice. “Lestrade should have enough on them now for an arrest.”

“Case closed, then?”

Sherlock smiled faintly. “I’m bored already.”

“Give it a few hours, at least,” John said. “We don’t need any more holes in the walls just yet.”

They settled into a companionable silence for a while after that. Sherlock opened his eyes again when John got up and came back around with the torch, leaning in close to his face to check his pupils. Sherlock smiled, although he wasn’t sure why, and John, surprised, smiled back.

“Next time, we’re calling Lestrade before we try to break up the kidnapping ring by ourselves,” John said, settling back next to Sherlock.

Sherlock shut his eyes again. “Oh, you had fun and you know it.”

John chuckled and readjusted the ice on his leg.

“And thanks,” Sherlock murmured.

John patted Sherlock’s leg and didn’t reply, but he didn’t have to.


End file.
